How to Please a Lady (16 page)

He was at most a friend, and even that was unfitting of her station. Then why did her heart feel as though it was being wrenched from her body? Why didn't the tears stop?

“Rose, what's wrong? Why are you weeping?”

It was Marcus, looking worried and stern. He never had been able to take her tears, even when she was a little girl. He would do just about anything to stop them.

“Are you feeling so ill then?”

Rose managed to shake her head. She struggled to sit up and held out her arms, and her big brother readily embraced her. “Oh, sweetling, please don't cry.” Rose couldn't remember the last time she'd given Marcus a hug, for the two of them had not been particularly close. He was ten years her senior and he'd always seemed like a giant to her, apart from the rest of them, because of his position as heir.

“Charlie just left,” she said, attempting to explain her tears.

Marcus pulled back, his face etched with confusion. “You call our head groom by his given name, Rose?”

“Goodness, you sound like Mother. I've always called him Charlie, ever since I was a little girl.”

Marcus, ever proper, pressed his lips together. “I think it is entirely too familiar to call a male servant by his given name, Rose. And why would a servant's departure produce tears at any rate?”

Rose ducked her head and fiddled with her covers, not wanting her brother to see the blush that stained her pale cheeks. It wouldn't do for Marcus to know how close she and Charlie had become these past few weeks. “I'm ill and upset and tired. I cry easily when all those factors combine,” she said, lying back down and turning her head away from her brother.

“Very well,” he said, but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. He was no doubt appalled that she would shed tears over a mere servant and she wondered what he would say if she admitted how deep her feelings actually were for Charlie. She suspected she might love him; why else would she feel so bereft at the thought of never seeing him again?

“I have some good news, Rose. I feared that once you ran away, you would be ruined should anyone discover your absence. Weston doesn't know you went missing, but he is no longer in the picture. You're to marry Cartwright.”

Rose turned her head, too shocked to respond. Even though this was what she wanted, it still came as a surprise that Cartwright had already approached Marcus.

“He has asked and I, as the only male family member present, have granted him permission.” Marcus looked at her, his eyes unwavering. “Is this what you want?”

Suddenly, it seemed all wrong. Marry Mr. Cartwright when she was in love . . .

Fresh tears fell from her eyes. “Yes, it is,” she said.

“I cannot begin to know what you've been through, Rose. Weston will pay for hurting you.” When Rose's eyes widened, Marcus hastened to say, “Mr. Avery told us why you ran away. Do not worry that he spoke out of turn. I requested that he report to me what he knew.”

“Before or after you struck him?”

Marcus smiled grimly. “After. I did apologize, but at the time I needed to strike the person I believed was responsible for harming my little sister.” He looked at her until she became uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “You don't have . . . feelings for Mr. Avery. Do you?”

“He is a good man and he has kept me safe. Other than that, I do not,” Rose said, feeling the lie like a pressure on her chest. How could she admit to any feelings toward Charlie when it was clear Marcus disapproved?

“Good.” He looked troubled, as if he wanted to say something but was debating whether he should or not. Finally, he said, “Mr. Cartwright.” Just two words, filled with so much meaning.

“I do believe he is the perfect husband for me,” Rose said. “I enjoy his company and I believe he enjoys mine. We shall get on nicely. You like him, don't you, Marcus?”

Marcus smiled. “I do. He's an intelligent man with fine principles. But . . . I was a bit surprised when he asked for your hand. I'd heard he was a dedicated bachelor.”

“I suppose I have charmed him away from bachelorhood,” Rose said. “Was Mother very upset?”

“She was in hysterics when she read your telegram,” he said dryly. “I think she will be heartbroken not to have a duchess daughter, but I daresay she'll get over it. It's probably best that you stay here for a while after you marry Mr. Cartwright.”

“I was thinking much the same,” Rose said. “I'm glad you came and not Father. I dislike it when he's angry.”

“As do I. I'll stay until your wedding. If you'll permit it, I can walk you down the aisle if Mother and Father decide not to make the trip. I'll wire them with the news as soon as I can.” He shook his head. “Who would have thought it would be you who would create such a scandal. I always thought it would be Stephen.”

Rose let out a small laugh. “I never thought I would do more than create a ripple of anger.”

“I will let you rest, shall I?” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Mr. Cartwright said the doctor did not expect you to live. I am very glad he was mistaken.”

Rose smiled, but her heart wrenched. Charlie had not given up on her. As sick as she'd been, she was aware of his constant presence, his stubborn attempts to get her to drink water, the cool cloths he would put on her forehead as she slept. Her throat closed painfully once her brother had left the room, and she allowed herself to cry a bit more. The only thought that made her feel a bit better was the realization that she was living in the same city as Charlie. Surely she would see him again.

 

C
harlie Avery adjusted his sleeve, brushing a bit of lint from the fine light worsted wool, then checked the time on his new pocket watch, a costly affair of eighteen-karat gold with diamonds in place of the numerals three and nine. It was the kind of timepiece that had a man checking if he was running late even when he knew he was not. From the top of his well-groomed head to the tips of his brilliantly shined custom-made shoes, he reeked of money. A lot of money. His carriage, manufactured by the Studebaker Brothers, was created of the finest materials—silk curtains, glove-soft leather, and springs that made it seem as though the carriage were gliding down the streets. Charlie was a man of discerning tastes, so when it had come time to select a home in New York, he wanted it situated where men of wealth and power lived—Fifth Avenue.

It hadn't been intentional, his buying the house next to his former employer, but when his agent contacted him about a home that had recently become available, he decided to take a look even though he recognized the address. His home had been constructed in the Italianate style, with a white marble front, gleaming tall windows, and an entryway that bespoke the wealth of the people who lived within. It wasn't gaudy, for Charlie was always careful not to appear too eager, but it was lovely and grand and everything a man who aspired to be respected wanted in a home.

For two months, workers had renovated the inside, installing all the latest innovations in plumbing and lighting and heat. His home would not be warmed by individual fires but rather by a central heating system that used a large boiler in the basement. When winter arrived, his house would be the warmest in the city, and when he wanted a warm bath all he need do was turn a faucet.

It was the home of a successful man, and Charlie felt a deep sense of satisfaction with all he had accomplished in the past five years.

It had all started with a can of beets. Delmonico's kitchen was well equipped, but its method of opening cans was frustratingly slow and difficult. And it had been Charlie's job to open them. The restaurant's clientele had come to expect peaches in December and peas in February. If their chef decided on peach cobbler for dessert that evening, it meant opening dozens of cans. Can after can, until Charlie's hands ached and he started longing for the days of shoveling horse manure.

He had one day off a week, and on that day he started fiddling with an idea for an easier and more efficient design, and had a blacksmith friend create the prototype. The chef, Charles Ranhofer, back from a brief retirement, watched a demonstration and then kissed Charlie on both cheeks. The opener was mounted on a counter and a series of gears moved the can around as a blade opened it.

Two years later, Charlie quit his job to work at the small manufacturing plant he'd built. He had four employees and was starting to accumulate more money than he had ever dreamed of having. And his brain kept working, kept creating, kept making money. He hired smart men who knew more about business than he did and he learned from them while they offered advice and dreamed bigger than he ever would have allowed himself to.

Now, five years after he'd stepped ashore, here he was, wearing a suit that cost more than he used to make in a year, living in a house that rivaled anything the aristocracy had in England. Charlie Avery was Mr. Charles Avery and people called him sir. It was heady stuff.

As the carriage moved along Broadway toward Fifth Avenue, Charlie allowed himself to think about his neighbor and the coincidence that the house next door to hers happened to go on sale when he was looking for a home. He wasn't blind to the reasons why that particular bit of real estate seemed more appealing than every other home he'd looked at. Of course he still thought about her and he knew no matter what happened, a part of him would always love her. He knew it wouldn't matter if he were the richest man in New York (which he was not). To her he was still Charlie Avery, head groom. And to him she would always be Lady Rose, unattainable and so far beyond his reach it was humiliating just remembering how he'd pined for her.

And God above only knew just how much he'd pined for her. When he'd left her that day, still ill, he'd left a big piece of his heart behind. He'd been miserable and driven. All that mattered was trying to forget that she was marrying another, that she had chosen another. He tortured himself with that thought. She could have chosen him, and as preposterous as such a notion was, he couldn't help but think they might have been happy. In all those years, he'd only seen her once, on her wedding day. The marriage had drawn quite a bit of attention, what with the bride being an English lady, the daughter of an earl, and the groom being uncommonly handsome, wealthy, and politically well connected. Charlie had simply been one of the crowd, a man whose eyes burned into her, who willed her to see him, to know how much he loved her. He'd told himself, if she saw him, she would realize how much she loved him and she would run down the steps of the church and throw herself into his arms. That didn't happen, of course. She'd gone up those steps, looking so damned beautiful it hurt to look at her, and disappeared into the church.

He hadn't waited for her to come out. He hadn't wanted to see her brilliant smile or hear the cheers from the crowd that had gathered outside. He hadn't wanted to picture her, naked, yearning, being touched by her new husband. The night of her wedding, Charlie got drunker than he'd ever been in his life and ended up outside their house, looking up at the second floor, tears streaming down his face. Sobbing and pathetic. Even as drunk as he'd been, he'd known what a fool he would look like should anyone see him. He'd stumbled home, a broken man.

Bitterness replaced his misery soon enough, molding him into the man he was now, the man who was glad she could hear him pleasuring other women. It wasn't the most honorable thought he'd ever had in his head, but there it was. He wanted to hope that some part of her regretted her decision. But it was far more likely she hadn't given him another thought. He was a servant. He was nothing to her.

Why couldn't he get that through his thick skull? If she'd been kind, if she'd kissed him, it had only been a lark. It meant nothing because he'd meant nothing to her. And so he knew he'd relish the moment when she realized he was no longer anyone's servant.

As his carriage stopped in front of his house, he smiled, remembering her note to him. Opera, indeed. He wondered what she'd thought about the French actress he'd entertained. Picking up his top hat, he placed it on his head as he heard his driver drop the step, then eased out of the carriage, his eyes on his home, brimming with pride.

“Charlie?”

He recognized her voice immediately and schooled his features to remain impassive, even though his damned heart practically leapt from his chest. There she was, grinning at him.

“Charlie!” She walked over to him, her face lit up, clearly happy to see him. My God, she was beautiful. She had been a girl when he'd left her and now she had blossomed into a woman. Her dark hair was swept back and bundled together at her nape, and her brown eyes sparkled. He'd forgotten how dark they were, and how they came to life whenever she smiled.

“My goodness, Charlie, you're a sight for sore eyes. How
are
you? And how fine you look,” she said, holding out her gloved hands for him to take. Charlie hesitated, not wanting to touch her, not trusting himself if he did. He braced himself even though her hands were gloved. He did the next best thing to not touching her, and that was to keep the contact as brief as possible. He did his best not to smile, not to let her know that his heart was hammering madly in his chest. Then he remembered she was recently widowed, and he was slightly ashamed of his physical reaction to her nearness.

“Mrs. Cartwright. I was sorry to hear about your husband's death. He was a good man,” he said.

“Thank you. I miss him every day.” It looked like she might cry, and Charlie felt a wave of jealousy. Over a dead man. He glanced at his home and had an awful moment of regret over its purchase. She followed his eyes with the oddest look on her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you work here? I've yet to meet my new neighbor. He's quite a mystery.” Rose looked him over, her face showing her confusion at his expensive clothing. Of course she never, not in a million years, would have thought him the owner, and part of him rejoiced at what he was about to tell her.

“I don't work here, Mrs. Cartwright,” Charlie said.

“Oh?”

“I live here.”

Oh, the look on her lovely face was priceless. It was clear that at first, she thought he was having fun with her. That's how unlikely it was that he was telling the truth. She even let out a small laugh, almost immediately stifling it when she realized he was not laughing with her. He watched the emotions come and go—amusement, confusion, and then the idea forming that perhaps he was telling the truth.

And then, it really was the loveliest sight he'd seen in some time, the awful dawning that he was her neighbor, the author of the note he'd sent, the man who had been disrupting her evenings with his performances.

“You live here? Do you mean to say you
own
this house?” Her brows were furrowed and her expression was downright adorable. She still couldn't quite believe that her former head groom lived in a house grander than her own.

“I do.”

“You're C. A. Kitchen Tools?”

“I am.”

“And you . . .” She couldn't complete the sentence, so he did it for her.

“. . . enjoy the opera.”

Her face turned the brightest red he'd ever seen on another human. She appeared both horrified and outraged, and he threw back his head and laughed.

“You are my new neighbor. My awful new neighbor,” she said, quite unnecessarily.

Charlie gave her a mocking bow. “At your service, madam.”

He had to give her credit. She held herself together quite nicely, keeping her composure in spite of what must have been a large shock to her delicate system. “I see. Well, Mr. Avery, welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cartwright. I enjoy it already,” he said, feeling rather wicked for teasing her. The way she was blushing, one might think she hadn't been married for four years.

“It was lovely seeing you again. Good day.” Her parting words were polite and spoken in a tone only a true English lady could use effectively.

He tipped his hat and watched as she pivoted and walked briskly back to her gate and entered it without turning around for a final look. Whistling a jaunty tune, Charlie strode up his front steps, feeling happier than he'd felt in a long time.

God above, he had missed that woman.

 

Charlie. Charlie Avery. It
couldn't
be. That man, that strikingly handsome, womanizing, richer-than-Croesus man was Charlie Avery. Sweet Charlie who had taught her how to kiss, who had been her friend, who had been so kind and caring and . . .

“It's impossible,” Rose said, closing the door behind her. How could that arrogant, smirking, wickedly beautiful man be
Charlie
? She went immediately to her bedroom, not even pausing to remove her hat or gloves, and found that awful note he had sent on the back of her stationery. She had no idea why she'd kept it; the mere sight of it piqued her. She looked at his handwriting, bold and without flourish. It was not the fine hand of a gentleman; she'd known this immediately. But there was a certain amount of confidence that bespoke a man of accomplishment.

“I cannot make any promises,” she said in a man's deep tone. Then it occurred to her that the entire time he
knew
who she was, that she was the one who had written that note. How he must have laughed at her. How could he?
Why
would he? He was not the man she'd thought he was. She remembered her mother telling her, “Servants are not your friends, Rose. This is their job and the only reason they seem to want to please you is to keep their job. Don't mistake that for affection.”

At the time, her mother had been speaking of her lady's maid. After coming across the two of them giggling like old friends, her mother had admonished Rose for her familiarity. It turned out that her maid had been stealing from her. Rose had been stunned and hurt, but it had been a lesson well learned. Still, she had never put Charlie in such a category. Though perhaps she should have.

She cringed, thinking about that ridiculous note she'd sent over to him. And those ridiculous kisses they had shared—the only time she'd ever been kissed. Throughout the years, she often had thought about those kisses, brief though they had been. Had Charlie simply been playing with her, having a bit of fun with the lady of the family? Good God, she'd even fancied herself in love with him.

And now he was her neighbor. The very same one who liked to entertain women. Quite well, apparently.

Rose crumpled the note up and threw it in her fireplace. It was too warm for a fire, but eventually it would go up in smoke. Without conscious thought, Rose walked over to her window and looked out across the alley. His curtains, as well as the window, were closed. She'd often admired the home; it reminded her of the houses back in England. Perhaps that's why Charlie had been drawn to it. That thought made her snort aloud. She knew full well why Charlie had been drawn to that home—it was to thumb his nose at her, his former employer. Did he think owning such a house would make him her social equal? Rose stared at the white stone, feeling out of sorts and a little bit betrayed. It was almost as if this new Charlie had stolen all her fond memories of the old Charlie. She liked
him
. This new man, with his expensive clothing, neatly shaved face, and dapper top hat, was not the Charlie she had adored as a girl.